Rebel Writer

I am a radical literary artist. Every week, I sneak up to the fourth floor corridor of Lubbers Hall and into its sacred loft. I bring candles smelling of cinnamon pecan rolls and ignite the wicks with illegal flames.  They dance wildly and cast flickering shadows on the walls. I toss plush sofa cushions to the ground and arrange them in a nest-like configuration. After removing my boots, I settle into its center and pull a journal and bottle of wine from my pack. I pop the cork and take a swig from its neck. The liquid stains my lips red. The demons clawing the gray matter in my brain are mesmerized by this ritual. My pen spirals and they retreat to the dusty rafters, away from view. Soon my spirals turn to words and words to passages. I break lines and I break rules. I am a writer.